


Better Off Forgotten

by orphan_account



Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: 70s AU, 80s AU, Crime and whatnot, Drinking, Drugs, Fighting, I hate myself, I mean it's like 1978-198something, I'll get to some smut eventually, Just keep your pants on, M/M, Nobody is straight in my writing for some reason, Period-Typical Homophobia, Smut, That reason is me, and then also the present, but most other people too, fiddauthor - Freeform, i got to the smut, so its not like im special, sorry - Freeform, stanchez, weird alien drugs, whoops, you'll figure it out - Freeform, young!Rick, young!stan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-09-21 00:05:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9521930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: After nearly forty years apart, Rick Sanchez and Stanley Pines find themselves face to face once again. Everything else seems to melt away. It's just the two of them and the memories that flood back.





	1. Meeting Again

The bright yellow and orange lights lit the arcade as cartoonish noises blared from the games. "Come on, Grandpa!" Rick rolled his eyes as Summer tugged at his sleeve, Morty laughing at her side.

"Y-yeah, Rick. Y-you promised!" The boy pestered.

"Yeah, Grandpa, you promised me!" It was true. Summer's graduation was in a few days and Rick had promised to take her and Morty to Blips and Chitz and buy them all day passes to celebrate.

"All right. All right," Rick gave in. The two teens celebrated as Rick moped his way over to a counter to buy their passes. _Twenty schmeckles a pass?_ Rick thought,  _That's highway robbery!_ And he'd know, of course, having committed it literally.

He returned to his grandchildren with the passes. Unlimited games all day. Both of their faces immediately lit up as the thin plastic cards hit their hand. "Yay! Thanks, Grandpa!" Summer shouted, throwing her arms around the man.

"Y-yeah. Thanks, Rick!" Morty similarly latched on to the scientist, who made a face of disgust at the contact. He'd never admit it, but he actually did like seeing the kids happy like this. Some kind of pride swelled in his chest, a feeling like he was actually doing something right.

He pried an arm free to muss Morty's hair. "Whatever. Y-you two assholes go play something."

The two turned to run off just in time for Rick to allow himself to smile, if only briefly. He took the flask from his inner coat pocket and took a sip, the whiskey burning in its familiar style the whole way down. He fidgeted with the pass he'd bought for himself and wandered around the games for a bit, sipping at his drink, until he heard the voice of his grandson calling him over.

"Hey, Rick! Looks like s-someone's beating your Roy score!"

"The hell?" Rick muttered in a mix of anger and confusion. It took a criminal mind to succeed at a game like Roy and few such beings existed in the universe. Rick would be damned if he let just anyone claim the high score.

Morty stood by the Roy game, along with a crowd of other creatures all watching in awe. "Woah," one alien commented, "This guy's got Roy leading an international drug cartel."

"Psh," Rick retorted jealously, "A baby could run a cartel."

"Ooh," another alien began in awe, "Now he's overthrown the Chinese government and is using the country as a means of labor!"

"We don't need the play-by-play, Carl," the alien's friend said, annoyed.

Rick raised a finger, about to say something, but quickly realized he had no comeback to make. He could barely see the screen over the crowd, much less the player in the chair. Who the hell could be beating him?

"Yeah!" the voice of a young human girl cheered, "Kill that guy! Let pain come to your enemies!"

"Mabel, maybe this isn't the best influence on you," a boy commented.

"Shut up, Dipper!"

A sad jingle played as a signal of the end of the game. "Hmm," a familiarly low, matter-of-fact voice mused, "Eighty-nine years and death via explosion. Certainly interesting."

Rick could have sworn he'd heard the voice before, but he wasn't certain where. Suddenly, another man spoke, "Interesting? Come on, Sixer! Me playing a video game and blowing up an imaginary volcano beats listening to your science crap any day." The voice was gruff and husky, the voice of an ex-smoker and someone Rick immediately recognized.

"Move it! M-move it!" Rick shouted, gracelessly pushing his way through the crowd until he saw it at last. In shorts and a Hawaiian shirt sat an old man, about Rick's age. He removed the game's immersive helmet to reveal short grey hair. Had it really been so long?

Rick grabbed the man's broad shoulders, spinning him around and onto his feet and there he was. The man's face was weathered and gruff, the lines of a cheap, yet endearing smile etched into his cheeks. But, still he looked friendly and lively, just the way Rick remembered, even after all these years. Laughter was still engraved on the wrinkles surrounding his eyes and mouth. Those kind, soft, familiar eyes. His jaw was firmly square, grazed by seemingly permanent stubble. His large, plump nose supported a thick pair of glasses. Those were new. It all seemed so different, and yet nothing seemed to change.

"Hey, what the hell?! Who are you?!" The man protested, before at last making eye contact. A look of anger melted into one of shock. His jaw dropped and his brown eyes opened wide. "Wait. Rick?" He asked after what felt like an eternity.

Rick laughed quietly and awkwardly to himself. He looked the man up and down. They'd both gotten old, he supposed. He smiled, still holding his hands on either shoulder. "Stanley Pines," he said, almost in a whisper. He stood up taller and, with a smirk, spoke more clearly and confidently, "You look good. It's been awhile since Columbia, huh?"

Stan stepped back just a bit. He looked almost betrayed. He shook his head lightly as he looked at Rick, taking in his image from his feet to the tips of the bluish spikes he called hair. He raised a hand, tensing it into a fist and looking Rick dead in the eyes. "You old bastard!" He shouted, reaching out and lunging toward the man he had once dared to call his partner.

* * *

 

It was a cold night in Detroit. The clouds overhead covered almost all of the sky, leaving only pockets of clarity so that the stars might peek through. Stan walked slowly along a snow-dusted sidewalk, huddled in his only coat, which was red and far too thin for such weather. The only real heat was coming from the low burn of the cigarette stuck between his teeth. His cheeks and nose were bright red from the cold and he shivered fiercely; a feeling he had grown almost used to. He'd spent the past few months scamming his way through northern states during the unfortunately harsh winter.

His feet were sore from walking and his legs were cramped from driving. He'd parked the  _Stanmobile,_ as he'd dubbed it, a few blocks back. He was still trying to think up some new scam that would probably get him banned from Michigan as well, but it was all he had going for himself. Right now, he just needed a hit. Something strong, preferably.

He'd heard something about some dealer that had been in the city just for a week or two, but was selling something unlike anything anybody had taken before. Something amazing that only got you high for a few minutes, but was stronger and just somehow  _better_ than anything else you could find on the streets.

It was down this street and to the right, in the backroom of a dollar store. He put out his cigarette on the ground outside before entering the store, relaxing as the indoor heating hit him. The fluorescent lights above hummed an obnoxious glow over the room. Stan idly pretended to browse some greeting cards near the door before approaching the cashier, who was hunched over the counter, thumbing through a magazine.

"Ahem," Stan cleared his throat, causing the cashier to look up at him. "Um, this stuff is fine all, but I heard you got somethin' stronger around here."

The cashier gestured with his head toward the back of the room at a door with the words _Employees Only_ printed on it. "In through there," he spoke softly.

"Thanks," Stan nodded and approached the door. He jostled the handle, but it was locked. He hesitantly knocked on the door. His fist had barely even left the surface before the door swung open.

There stood the figure of a man a bit taller than himself. He was tan and thin. His hair was spiked oddly and was a smooth jet black. Above his sharp, blue eyes sat a unibrow that somehow suited him. He wore a  _very_ low-cut blue tank top and a black leather jacket with small silver spikes on the shoulders. His dark skinny jeans sat low on his hips, revealing just a bit of skin between the cutoff of his pants and his top. He was standing uncomfortably close, only a few inches away. He looked Stan up and down, sizing him up. He turned up his pointed nose and smiled mischievously. "Come on in," he said in a smoky tone as he stepped out of the doorframe to let Stan through.

Stan stepped past the man into a small darkened room, made even shadier as the door was closed behind him. A single lamp shone from a black desk in the center of the room. The window behind the desk was no use at this time of night. He felt the thin man grab his arm and lead him to a chair. "Hey!" he protested, but didn't resist, allowing himself to be seated on a short wooden stool. The man went around to the other side of a desk, sitting in his own swivel chair and kicking his feet up on the desk. Reaching into a drawer, he removed a cigarette and a lighter. The flame briefly illuminated his face as he held it near his lips, creating shadows outlining his distinct features. His cheekbones alone could probably cut someone. Stan wasn't sure how to feel about this guy. He got a kind of bad vibe, but chose to ignore it. He was just here for the drugs, then he' be on his way.

"So," the man broke the silence, "you gonna s-say something?" He stuttered as he spoke, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

"Um... hi?" Stan spoke hesitantly. Usually he just gave the dealer the money, got his stuff, and left. But, being in a dark room alone with a stranger insisting on talking to him was uncomfortable to say the least.

"Heh," the man took his feet off the desk and leaned forward onto his elbows, looking Stan in the eyes. "Cute." He laughed a bit to himself before backing off and retrieving a plastic sandwich bag of purple powder that seemed to glow in the dim space. "Quarter ounce. Five hundred dollars."

"Five hundred dollars?" Stan echoed, "That's insane for a quarter ounce!"

"L-look, buddy, this stuff is the real deal. Y-you're lucky I'm even selling at all. Now either hand over the money, or stop wasting my time."

Stan nervously peeked into his wallet. He'd just finished the scam that got him banned from Ohio, so he was better off than usual. He had three or four thousand dollars maximum. He knew whatever he had would much better be spent on food, but at this point, he wasn't even sure he'd make it through the week. He drew out five one-hundred dollar bills, slapping them down on the table.

The man smiled. "Good choice. Y-you won't regret it, handsome," he said, sliding the plastic bag toward Stan.

"Um, sure. Thanks." Stan took the bag and looked it over quickly before shoving it in his pocket. It was like nothing he'd ever seen before. It sparkled faintly in the low light, all while seeming to emit its own purple hue.

He stood and was about to head through the door when a large, bald man burst through the room, pushing Stan to the back wall before approaching the dealer. "Sanchez!" the large man shouted. He was quite a bit taller than Stan and roughly as muscular. 

Sanchez, as Stan figured was his name, shoved the wad of money into his pocket and leaned back in his chair, avoiding eye contact with the behemoth. "W-what do you want, Jack?"

"My money, Sanchez!" Jack slammed a fist on the desk, causing the lamp to tremble. Sanchez looked up to the man, nonplussed. A tattoo of a dragon's tail ran along the back of the bald man's head and down his neck, tucking out of sight behind a white t-shirt.

"Come on," Sanchez rolled his eyes, "I won that money fair and square. Y-you can't just barge i-in here and take what's mine."

"You rigged and you know it!"

"I-i'm not sure how I'd a rig a game without noticing."

In a fit of anger, Jack grabbed the stool in which Stan had sat and threw it toward the back wall. The seat broke into a number of pieces, only a few feet away from Stan, who didn't dare move. Whether out of fear or curiosity, he'd decided to stay and see the scene unfold.

"I don't wanna hurt you, Sanchez, but that doesn't mean I won't," he thundered as he grabbed Rick's jacket by the lapels, dragging him across the desk and knocking off the lamp, the cigarette falling from his mouth.

"Hey! Hey!" Sanchez protested, "Hands off the leather!"

"Five seconds, Sanchez! Five!"

"I don't even have it on me!"

"Four!"

"Come on, man, just... j-just..."

"Three!"

"Please! J-just gimme a day!"

"Two!" He threw Sanchez to the ground and removed a pistol from the back of his jeans.

"Please!" Sanchez pleaded, eyes closed in anticipation of a bullet, hands over his face, like that would do anything.

Then, he heard a thud. He slowly opened his eyes to see Jack lying on the ground, unconscious, a welt already forming at the tip of the dragon's tail. Stan stood over him with one of the stool's legs in his hand like a bat, breathing heavily, his coat unzipped. He approached the dealer, smiling, to help him up from the floor.

Sanchez smiled and gladly took his hand as he stood. For a moment, he just admired Stan, completely dumbfounded. He began to laugh loudly and pulled Stan into a hug. "Nice! Not as meek as you seem, huh?"

Stan was taken aback at the sudden gesture. When was the last time anybody had hugged him? Didn't matter. He reciprocated the contact lightly. "Heh, yeah. I guess not."

Sanchez stepped back, coughing to clear the air, and put out a hand to shake. "Rick Sanchez. Thanks a lot."

Stan gladly shook hands. "Stanley Pines. Not a problem." The room was painfully quiet. Rick was smiling brilliantly. Stan took a hesitant step toward the door. "Well, uh, I should be goin' then..."

"Wait! Hold on!" Rick grabbed Stan by the bicep, squeezing lightly to size up his strength. "Y-you know, I could really use someone like you. Someone with... muscle," he said with another light squeeze to Stan's arm. "I-i mean, you got any experience in sales?"

Stan pulled back defensively. "More or less."

"Then come on!" Rick pleaded, "We can split the money. Fifty-fifty. Just help me out, here."

He looked into Rick's eyes. They were ice blue, not just the irises, but radiating through the whites. His smile was unlike that which he had used while trying to sell to Stan. It was softer, more genuine. Stan rolled his eyes. It wasn't like he had many better options. "You know what? Alright."

"Yes! Aha!" Rick cheered, pulling Stan into his arms, "Y-you're not gonna regret this! W-we're gonna make all kinds of money! Just you and me! Rick and... and... Sorry, what was your name again?"

"Stanley," Stan allowed himself to grin at Rick's excitement. He was nothing if not entertaining.

"No. Too long. Lee! Now that's a name!"

"Um, nobody calls me that. I usually just go by Sta-"

"W-well I do. It's just gonna be you and me, Lee! R-rick and Lee and all the money we're gonna make! Isn't that r-right?"

Stan smiled and slung an arm around Rick. "That's right," he said, "Rick and Lee it is!"

The two laughed until their joy was broken by the sound of voices from the dollar store. They looked at each other, then toward the source of the noise. Stan cautiously placed his ear against the door to listen.

"...man come through here?" An intimidating voice asked.

"Lotsa people come through here." The cashier replied.

"You'd know this one. Tall, bald, dragon tattoo."

Stan nervously glanced at Jack's unconscious body and turned his attention back to the door.

"...seen him. Back there."

"Thanks."

"Shit!" Stan cursed quietly.

"What's going on?" Rick asked, concerned.

Stan shushed him and moved over to the window, prying it open. "We gotta go. They're lookin' for that guy over there."

"Shit!"

"Shh!"

"Sorry." Rick ran over to his desk, shoving each bag and a pack of cigarettes into his pocket before moving over to the window. Stan boosted him up and out, soon following suit. They ran from the alley, hearing the same voice from earlier shouting as it encountered the man it was looking for. Stopping a ways down the street to catch their breath.

"We gotta split," Rick said between breaths. "Y-you gotta way out of town?"

Stan laughed to himself and stood upright, retrieving the car keys from his pocket and jingling them in front of Rick, who grabbed them in admiration. "That way," Stan gestured back in the direction from which they had come.

"Damn!" Rick commented, "You're the whole package!" He hugged Stan once again, who was now getting used to the feeling, but this time left a sloppy kiss against Stan's stubbly cheek.

"Woah, woah, woah," Stan stammered, pulling back. "I... I'm not gay," he insisted.

"Ha!" Rick laughed, "Okay. Whatever you say." He tossed Stan the car keys and began briskly walking towards the lot where the car was parked. "Let's go!"

Stan nodded lightly, putting the keys back away. "Let's go," he echoed quietly and began walking to catch up with this Rick. His new business partner.


	2. A Stop Along The Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the way to Chicago to meet up with some new guys, the two stop at a motel for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: internalized and period-typical homophobia.

_Stan sure can hold a grudge,_ Rick thought as after forty years, Stanley Pines was lunging toward him, fist extended. Rick braced himself, fulling expecting a punch to the face, but was instead greeted with Stan's hand wrapping around the back of his head. His rough palm grazed Rick's bald spot, fingers gripping his hair. Rick felt himself pulled into a rough kiss, their mouths pressed together tight and clumsily. It shouldn't have been in anyway romantic, but it drew them both back to the romance and the adventures and the feelings they both had so long ago. It was weird. His breath no longer smelled like tobacco and he'd actually bothered to brush his teeth, but there was still the unchanging scent of toffee and beer. The rest of the world, the people, the arcade, the planets all seemed to disappear around them.

This isolation, however, was broken by the piercing sound of a young girl screaming. Stan pulled away and turned to the humans that were there with him. Rick saw a young teenager staring at Stan screeching with a ridiculous smile on her face. She quickly ran out of air and resorted to no more than staring.

"Um... uh... Grunkle... Grunkle Stan," a boy chimed in nervously, his voice cracking under some unseen pressure, "what exactly...? Who is... What're y- I mean, just, that- and there isn't anything wrong with-! I only thought you-"

"Spit it out, kid!" Stan interrupted. Rick noticed his cheeks growing slightly red at being called out.

"Could you maybe just... explain? Please?"

Rick looked behind Stan to see a sweater-clad young girl and similar looking boy wearing short sleeves and a winter hat along with a man in a sweater who, especially with his own glasses, looked exactly like Stan in every way: his twin. Rick had heard plenty about this nerd from Stan, absolutely none of it good.

"Actually, kids," the twin spoke, "you two should run along. Go find something to do."

"No," Stan interrupted, "I should explain." He turned to the others, slinging an arm around a slightly uncomfortable Rick. "This is my family," he explained to Rick, "Mabel and Dipper, my great niece and nephew, and my brother Ford.

"And, um, kids..." Stan's voice quavered slightly as he spoke, "This is Rick Sanchez. My old... boyfriend."

Dipper stared confused for a millisecond before his eyes grew wide. "Ahh," he breathed in understanding, nodding slightly.

His sister, on the other hand, was still staring at them, hands on her cheeks, jaw dropped, eyes open wide and dreamy. _True love_ , she mouthed silently.

"Yeah, yeah," Rick muttered, raising a hand in a half-hearted wave, "Pleasure to make your whatever." He turned back to Stan. "I-i've actually got my own family now, ya' know. Summer!" he called loudly.

"Right here, Grandpa!" Summer responded, next to Morty, only a few feet away, but equally loud.

"Jesus!" Rick shouted in surprise, flinching out of Stan's grasp. "How long have you been there?"

Summer folded her arms. "Long enough."

"W-whatever." Rick gestured to his grandchildren. "This is Summer, my granddaughter, and Morty, my fuckup- I-i mean grandson."

Morty gave Rick a sour look, but it was nothing he hadn't done before.

"Wow," Stan said nervously, a hand reaching to the back of his own neck, "Grandkids? So, you finally settled down, then?"

"N-no, no," Rick assured him quietly. He never liked talking about his ex-wife, especially in front of the kids. "It didn't work out. I-i'm just around for this two now."

"I see."

"And you? You got any of your own?"

"Me? Ha!" Stan laughed mockingly, "No, I don't got any kids of my own."

"Except for Soos!" Mabel shouted from behind him.

"He's adopted and a grown adult!" Stan argued back, "He's even expectin' a kid of his own."

"And he's gonna name it Stanley!" The girl piped up again.

Stan turned to her, only slightly annoyed, "You go take your brother and find something to do," he ordered.

"I should go with them," Ford offered.

Rick looked to his own family. "You two. Scram." The kids and Stan's twin all ran off, leaving behind the two men.

"L-looks like you're gonna be a grandpa too, huh?" Rick teased.

"Grandpa?" Stan whined, "Agh! No! Makes me sound old."

Rick laughed raucously. "You are!"

"Heh, I guess. We both got old."

* * *

 

Stan drove quickly, hoping not to get pulled over as Rick sat beside him, feet up on the dashboard, fiddling with some strange crystal in his hands. It was dead silent. Stan was alone most often, so he was used to the silence. But, when somebody else was there with him, it was unbearable. Something had to be said.

"So," he began, "what's that you got there?"

"Time crystal," Rick replied curtly without looking away.

"Huh." Stan wondered exactly what that could mean. It could just be some hippy crap, but Rick didn't seem like the type to buy into that. "Where'd you get it?"

Rick turned, the leather of his jacket squeaking against the leather of the seat. He held the crystal closer to Stan, who glanced at it while still trying to keep his eyes on the road. Rick looked at him flatly and told him, "I-i stole it from time-traveling testicle monsters."

Stan blinked. Rick seemed serious about this. Stan decided to just leave it at that.

Rick slumped back down in his seat, shoving the crystal in a coat pocket.

After another bout of silence, Stan decided to ask Rick something else. "So, what exactly's in Chicago?"

 

"W-we'll be meeting up with a couple of friends of mine. Just..." his voice trailed off, seemingly unsure, "J-just be prepared for things to be a bit... unusual."

"This ain't gonna be too dangerous, is it?"

"U-unfortunately no. Simple deal. BP and Squanchy. G-good guys."

"What the hell is a Squanchy?"

"Hey!" Rick defended the name, "H-he's not from around here, okay?"

Stan shrugged. "Sorry, then."

By that time, they were trailing along through Indiana. The sky was dark and speckled with stars above the dark highway. Rick leaned the carseat back a bit and yawned.

"Tired?" Stan asked.

"N-no!" Rick seemed almost offended by the suggestion, like it was a sign of weakness, "I-it's just a deep breath is all."

"Sure," Stan said skeptically. For a genius, Rick really wasn't good at lying to Stan. Rick had lied his way through plenty of other scams, but Stan was different. He could read people real well. Better than just about anybody. In his business, it was one of his most valuable talents. "There's a motel a few miles from here. At least  _I_ am tired, so we can stop there for the night."

"Well," Rick said grandiosely, "If you insist."

 

The motel was rundown to say the least. The neon sign in the parking lot flickered dimly, but it was cheap and they still had one vacancy. One room. One bed. Rick held the key to the room as Stan sifted through the backseat of the Stanmobile to find an old knitted blanket he kept.

"Honestly, Lee," Rick complained, "I-it's not a big deal."

"I'm sleeping on the floor," Stan insisted.

"W-what's the worst that could happen? Accidental eye contact? W-we can put up a pillow barrier if i-it'll make you feel better. L-let's just sleep already!"

Stan retrieved the blanket and closed the car door triumphantly. "There! Let's get settled in, then."

Rick rolled his eyes. "W-whatever soothes y-your fragile masculinity."

The room was small and cramped. A round table sat near a dark window covered only by thin, gaudy curtains, with two chairs on either side. There was a small, boxy television perched atop a dresser across from the bed with the remote bolted to the bedside table. The bed itself was nothing more than an old spring mattress on a vaguely rusty wire frame with a few flat pillows and a couple layers of thin, white sheets under a light, fuzzy yellow blanket. The indoor heating barely sputtered out and it was only marginally warmer than outside.

"I-i don't know, Lee," Rick tried to persuade, "I-it's real cold in here a-and it's really no big deal i-if-"

"I'm fine!" Stan cut off.

"I-it's not gay for you to j-just share a bed."

"I'm not gay!" Stan still insisted.

"I-i'm not saying you are!" Rick shouted, exasperated. "Wha-whatever," he mumbled, moving toward the bed. He took off his jacket and belt, setting them on top of the dresser. He sat on the edge of the bed and leaned down to untie his boots.

"Are..." Stanley began, uncomfortable with the conversation, "Are you a queer?" he asked.

Rick laughed quietly to himself, not even looking away from his fingers as he carefully pulled the laces loose. "Call it whatever you want."

"Oh," Stan mumbled. His head was filled with memories of his father shouting at the teenage boy, tears forming from behind his thick glasses.  _No son of mine is gonna be some fag!_ he bellowed,  _It's a damn good thing you're smart or your ass'd be out on the streets for this!_ Stanford was so scared, absolutely mortified. Stanley had heard him sobbing quietly in his bunk that night, but never bothered to bring it up. How could Rick be so nonchalant about it? "That's fine, then," Stan said, half to Rick and half to himself.

"No shit." Rick shrugged and settled into the bed, still in his tank top, jeans, and socks.

Stanley, not bothering to change at all, stole a pillow from the bed, fluffing it meagerly and settling into the short carpeting. He heard a heavy sigh from Rick and the shifting of fabric as he slid under the covers. "G'night," Rick yawned.

"Good night," Stan echoed, unfurling his own blanket over himself. It did little to keep out the cold, but it was still better than nothing. He slept restlessly that night, occasionally waking up shivering slightly. He'd look up to the bed, where Rick slept quietly, his already untamed hair growing more and more wild as he turned in his sleep. Stan wondered what he could be dreaming about. Every so often, Stan could hear sound sort of sound from Rick. A whimper of sorts. Whatever was going through his head seemed terribly unpleasant.

Stan was tempted to join him in the bed. It was big enough for two. It was warm. Rick needed comforting. After all, Rick had been a nice enough guy to him. He'd taken him into the business, split all his cash, given him company. The last alone was more than anybody else had done in years. Rick was a little rough around the edges, but seemed amiable and charming and smart and mysterious and cute and-  _no. Oh no._ Stan pushed these thoughts aside, burying them deep down in the darkest recesses of his mind. He  _was not_ gay. He  _did not_ like Rick. He  _did not_ like his hair and bony figure and striking blue eyes and-  _fuck._ Stan had done enough thinking for the night and just focused on trying to sleep, hoping this would seem nothing more than a dream in the morning.

 

The curtains did little to distract from the bright sun rising directly through the east-facing window. Stan woke as beams of light hit his face, warmer than the entirety of the night had been. He sat up, his back and neck stiff, and stretched as much as the tenseness in his shoulders would allow.

As he stood, his eyes were caught by Rick standing in the window against the light of morning. The previous bags under his eyes had momentarily disappeared. He looked content and rested. Stan's eyes glanced down, noticing that Rick was shirtless. His ribs were prominently visible, but not quite off-putting. His hands held behind his head, Stan had a full view as Rick was busy looking outside at the freshly falling snow.

Stan must have allowed his gaze to linger just a moment too long, as Rick began laughing loudly out of nowhere, his shoulders bouncing with each chuckle.

"Wha-what?" Stan asked, snapping out of his thoughts.

"Got a good enough view there, L-lee?" Rick teased, "I'm gonna g-go get a shower. Feel free to join me," Rick said with a wink as he moved toward the bathroom.

Stan rolled his eyes, raising a hand to his forehead in feigned disappointment, really trying to hide the blush forming on his face. "I think I'll just wait until you're done."

"Wha-whatever. Then it's back on the road!"

"Yeah! Heh heh. You got it." Stan hated himself for sounding so awkward. Rick disappeared into the bathroom. Stan sat on the bed and could hear the sound of water flowing from the shower head. He lied down, feet still on the ground, upset.

Much to his disappointment, he hadn't forgotten his thoughts from the previous night. It was one thing imagining it, but seeing Rick like that was something completely different. No matter how much he tried, he couldn't just ignore it and push it aside. It surely wasn't the first time he'd felt... _things_ about a guy. But, before, he'd always been able to focus on something else, turn his attention away, maybe hit on some girl, and pretend like nothing had happened. On top of that, he hadn't felt much of anything in the past four years away from home. Why was this time different? Stan figured this must have been how his brother felt his junior year. Between their old man and the alleyway... but that didn't seem to matter. Stanford didn't care when he was kicked onto the street. So, what should Stan care if he got a little hurt for his choices?

He lied there, absorbed in his own thoughts, until Rick burst out of the room, steam pouring out around him, holding his boxers and jeans in one hand, the other holding an off-white towel low around his waist. Stan sat up and quickly averted his gaze. He wouldn't think about it. He  _couldn't._

"Alright," Rick said, "y-your turn, then."

"Yeah, sure, fine, whatever," Stan spoke far too quickly as he push past Rick into the bathroom, slamming the door shut between them.

"Then it's off to Chicago, baby!" Stan heard Rick shout from the bedroom, "Making that motherfucking money! Live-live-livin' it up!"

"Yeah, yeah," Stan agreed toward the door as he began to disrobe. It was going to be a long drive to Chicago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Off to a bit of a slow start, I suppose, but I promise more action in the next chapter! Feel free to leave a comment or kudos! I need it to survive.


	3. Finding Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pair arrives in Chicago to make a deal with a traveling band.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for blood and gunshots.  
> Note: Edited on February 12th. Just noticed some typos is all.

After a few more hours at the arcade, Rick flew back towards earth in silence. Summer sat in the passenger seat, staring into space with her earbuds in. In the corner of his eye, Rick saw Morty creeping forward from the back of the ship, looking at his grandfather with a stupid smile.

"W-what the fuck do you want?" Rick interrogated.

"Oh-oh, nothing," Morty said unconvincingly with a shrug. Summer looked over to her brother with a giggle, clearly understanding.

"That's right," Rick insisted, "Y-you're not going to say anything." This silenced the boy, who sat back down in his seat, clearly not satisfied.

However, it did little to quiet his sister. "So, Grandpa Rick," Summer began, taking out her earbuds, "You got a friend, it seems."

"Shut up! I-it's more than you have," Rick retorted defensively.

Summer cleared her throat, attempting to remain more mature than her grandfather, who seemed to be more like a petulant child. "Be that as it may, I think it's sweet." She smiled kindly at Rick, who, strangely enough, had nothing to say back.

Morty leaned back up to speak. "A-are we gonna see them again, Rick?"

"Better question, Morty!" Rick offered, "Why the fuck would I w-want to do that?"

"I-i-i don't know. They just seemed pretty cool is all," Morty stammered out awkwardly, "A-and I thought maybe w-we could just stop by. That kid, Dipper, said they're s-staying in Oregon for the summer.

"Put y-your teenage, hormone fueled infatuations aside, Morty. Th-this is grown-up business."

"M-my what?" Morty asked.  
"Y-your squeeze or compression or w-whatever the word is with y-you kids."

"I-i don't have a crush!" Morty defended himself, voice cracking and dripping with insecurity.

"Nobody cares what you call it!" Rick snapped, "A-and now you know w-what it feels like when you assholes decide to c-call me out on my private life."

They finished the rest of the route without further discussion on the matter. After pulling into the garage and exiting the vehicle, Summer approached Rick and hugged him lightly. "Thanks again, Grandpa. You were right. That place is the best."

"Yeah, yeah," Rick muttered, patting her back with one hand. "W-whatever."

The two kids went inside, leaving Rick alone in the garage. He searched through the various boxes to find a small translucent sheet of plastic. Tapping on the screen, it projected a holographic image of the solar system: Galactic Positioning System of sorts. His own creation, of course. He selected the third orb from their central star, closing in on his own home planet. With a flick of his wrist, the planet's rotation was stalled. He faced North America, zooming in on his country of residence, into the rainy Northwest coast, into the empty and wooded regions of Oregon, right into the town of Gravity Falls. He looked across the dreary landscape. The city was grey and bleak. A vast cemetery sat atop a tall hill. Even in projection form, something felt off about the town.

Before parting, Stan had given Rick his address. "Stop by any time," he'd offered. He might have to do just that.

 

Stan followed his brother back into their home of the shack. Dipper was at Ford's heels, full of endless questions and praises.

"That was so cool! I can't believe we went to space!"

"Yes, my boy. And to a space arcade, no less!"

Mabel stayed closer to Stan, still very happy. She seemed to never stop smiling. She was so much like he had been decades ago.

"So," she pestered, "Are you going to tell us more about this _mysterious stranger_?"

"I dunno what you're talking about," Stan said, avoiding the question.

"Come on, Grunkle Stan!" she pleaded, "I need _details_! You can't just kiss a man, talk to him for an hour, and leave it at that!"

"Watch me."

Mabel rolled her eyes with a sigh and reluctantly let the topic go, if only for the time being. They entered through the gift shop, admiring how Soos had been running the place. The man himself quickly burst through the screen door, having heard them arrive, to meet the crowd as they returned.

"Welcome back, dudes!" he exclaimed, pulling Stan into an all-too-tight hug. "Good to see ya', Dad!"

Stan patted Soos on the back. He felt the fabric of the black jacket he wore as the new Mr. Mystery. Stan noticed it was the same as his old one and smiled from the subtle connection to his legacy. "Yeah, yeah. You too, Soos."

The vending machine at the back of the room slid open and a short, old man walked out. He sported a white beard, cut shorter than it had been, and a large, pink sweater with a sparkly purple _F_ on the front, clearly knitted by Mabel. "Hey, darlin'," he greeted Ford in a grating tone, but happy nonetheless. He grabbed Ford by the top of his turtleneck, pulling him down close enough for a kiss on the cheek.

Ford blushed red enough to match his sweater and smiled as he stood upright. "Hey, Fidds," he replied, taking the man's hand in his own, the golden ring cold against his fingers.

"Oh, hey, Old M-" Dipper cut himself off, realizing his mistake, "I mean Great Uncle Fiddleford."

"Grunkle Fidds!" Mabel shouted, delighted to see him in the sweater she'd made just for him. She ran over to him, tugging at his free arm. "I was looking online and I found the perfect cake for the wedding. You are going to love it!"

"Well, then, you're just goin' to have to show me," he responded with a smile. Mabel was more excited about the wedding than the actual grooms. It was refreshing for Stan, Ford, and Fiddleford alike to see someone so young and so happy.

Stan looked through some cheesy postcards on a spinning metal rack. They were all terrible, of course. Nothing more than tourist traps of his own design. He picked up a green card with nothing more on it than a question mark and the address at the bottom. Might as well make it convenient for the money bags to find.

"Whatcha lookin' at there, Dad?" Soos asked.

"Eh," Stan shrugged, "I think I'm just gonna take one of these."

"Sure thing! For you, it's on the house," he offered, chipper.

"Of course it is," Stan replied, with no intent to pay either way.

Ford watched Stan with concern. His brother had only ever mentioned Rick once or twice while they explained to each other the events of the past. Anymore, Stan's memories of his homeless years had been foggier than ever. Without any clear reminders around, it seemed like he'd finally let go of that part of his life. But, with Rick back, what if he remembered something he'd be better off forgetting?

The ride was uncomfortable, to say the last, Stan found himself flustered every time Rick did so much as make eye contact, but they were finally in Chicago. It was nearly midnight. Stan drove slowly through some quiet backroads, along various apartments, liquor stores, and strip clubs. The skyline was blurred by smog from the nearby steel plant.

"It's just along here," Rick pointed ahead, "Th-they're putting on a show at bar."

"Okay," Stan said and nothing else, much like he had all day.

"Y-you okay?" Rick asked. Stan looked over to see Rick staring at him, like he was waiting for some subtle facial cue, some hint into his thoughts.

"Why d'ya ask?" Stan asked defensively. He quickly returned his gaze to the streets, turning his head slightly more than necessary, hoping to hide his face from Rick. There was a heat in his cheeks, something a genius like Rick would surely notice.

"Just that y-you're being quiet," Rick explained, sounding genuinely concerned, if only for a moment. He coughed. "W-whatever it is, d-don't let it get in the way."

"Okay."

* * *

 

Stan parked along the side of the road outside a brick apartment complex. Colorful lights seeped out from a staircase leading under the building, shimmering purples and blues across the snow packed pavement.

"Th-that's the place," Rick instructed. As they exited the car, they could hear the heavy beat of a pounding drum set from the excitement underground. They stepped down the stairs to a heavy wooden door. The glass near the top gave a view to the crowd of people only slightly obscuring the obscene amount of light pouring out as a muffled voice sang along to the beat.

Rick threw open the door and strode inside, Stanley following close behind. The bar was roomy and classic in appearance. There was a padded red leather wall behind the bar and scarlet curtains were parted to reveal the various bottles. It must have been an old speakeasy, renovated for somewhat legal use. The words being sung were now clear, but in no way understandable. It was some strange language Stan had never heard before. He gave Rick a confused look.

Rick brushed this off. "I-i told you they aren't from a-around here," he explained.

Stan chose not to think about it too much and instead just followed Rick as he pushed through the crowd to the front of the stage. The drums and vocals were the only instruments, but it was somehow enough. They way they were played took up much more than one simple role. As they neared the stage, Stan made out the figures of a tall man shouting the strange words into a microphone. He had large wings stretched out to his sides. He wore a short cloth for a skirt and thin boots and gloves. His head and wings were adorned with white feathers, speckled with brown. Behind the drums sat a small, orange cat-rodent-like creature of sorts. Its eyes were crazed and its fur appeared matted. Whatever this was, Stan figured they had some pretty good costumes.

"Thank you, humans of Chicago, Illinois," the feathered man spoke into the microphone in a monotone voice as the song came to an end, "We are the Flesh Curtains. Please do not forget to grant supplementary currency to women bringing you nutrients and brain-altering liquids."

Rick waved slightly to the man, which was enough to catch his attention. He gestured toward the bar with his head and began to walk in that direction.

He and Stan sat next to each other at the bar, which was old and worn, heavy scratches embedded from the years of use. "Two whiskies. Neat," Rick ordered. The bartender studied them carefully and complied, sliding their drinks toward them. Rick sipped at his glass as the feathered man took a seat next to Rick, the orange creature at his side.

"Hello, Rick."

"Hey, Birdperson!" Rick greeted cheerfully, slamming his drink down on the bartop, "W-what's goin' on with you?"

"I am well. Squanchy and I are making a fair amount of earth currency from musical performances. It has even been a successful mating season for myself."

"A-alright! Birdperson! Getting s-some action!"

"Who is this man with you?"

"Oh, this guy?" Rick slung an arm around his friend, at which he tensed up, "He's my n-new muscle. Stanley"

"Interesting," Birdperson commented, observing the two.

Stan watched on his silence, completely confused.

"I assume you are here for the Kalaxian crystals." Birdperson stated bluntly.

"Shh! K-keep it down," Rick hushed.

"These humans do not know of the planet Kalaxa, Rick."

"W-whatever," Rick dismissed, "How much is it?"

"Twenty flurbos for your standard purchase."

"J-just twenty?" Rick asked in surprise, "Y-you're a real saint, BP."

"You know, Rick, it would be free if you joined the band."

"Yeah, Rick!" the orange creature chimed in, "We could really squanch with your guitar!"

"Nah, Squanchy," Rick dismissed, "I'm good like I am."

"Gubba nub nub doo rah kah," Birdperson replied, the language similar to that which he had been singing. He placed a wad of bills on the counter to pay for Rick and Stan's drink and wordlessly led them to the back room, where the instruments were packed up. He opened a large, black amplifier case to remove a dark green suitcase. It hit the ground with a loud thud, clearly full of the requested powder.

Rick pulled out a small pouch of coins from his jacket pocket, handing them to Birdperson. "Th-thanks, man."

"You are welcome," Birdperson replied with a nod.

"Squanch ya' later, Rick!" Squanchy called.

"Heh heh, yeah. Squanch you guys later," Rick said with a wave. He lifted up the handle of the suitcase and strolled out the door, Stan trailing behind. They were passing through the bar toward the exit when they heard the bartender calling over to them.

"Hey you!" The bartender shouted. Rick looked around for a moment before pointing to himself for confirmation. "Yeah, you! Where'd you get that case?"

"I-it's mine!" Rick shouted back, "Now, if you don't mind. I-i'll be on my way."

"Nah, I saw you come in. You didn't have it 'till just now. Open it up!" the barkeep demanded.

"I-it's my property! You don't have a warrant."

"Don't need one." They saw the bartender reach under the counter to reveal the shiny black metal of a pistol.

Rick took a step back, standing closer to Stanley, who placed a hand on his shoulder nervously. "Look," Rick spoke calmly, "I-i can explain all of this. All if we just- RUN!" he shouted, grabbing Stan's hand from his shoulder and bolting for the door, the case dragging behind. They had just made it to the door when there was a gunshot. Then another. Rick grunted, falling forward and out into the snow.

" _¡Mierda!_ " he cursed as the white flakes were stained scarlet beneath his leg. Stan instinctively scooped up Rick into his arms. "The case!" Rick protested. Stan grabbed it with one hand, the forearm still supporting Rick's back. Rick wrapped his arms around Stan to hold himself up as he raced up the stairs. He heard a clamor from inside the bar and the bartender screaming for some "freaks" to let him go, so they had some time to get away.

Reaching the car, Stan carefully set Rick in the passenger seat, buckling him in and leaning it back as far as it would go. He ran around to the other side, threw the case in the back, and climbed into the driver's seat before speeding away dangerously fast along the icy roads.

"Rick!" Stan yelled, panicked as he drove, "Sweet Moses! Are you okay?"

"I-i'm... _E-estoy bien_ ," he mumbled out, taking in and out sharp, shallow breaths.

"What?" Stan asked, unable to understand.

"I'm fine!" Rick translated, "I-it's... i-it's not my first... Agh!"

"We gotta go to a hospital!"

"No!" Rick demanded, "No! Th-they'll wanna know h-how... h-how I got sh-shot."

"Well we gotta do something!"

"G-go to a motel... I-i'll be fine."

"They'll see you bleeding."

Rick sat silent in thought for a moment. "Okay... O-okay. Find a park or something."

It only took a few minutes of reckless driving to arrive at an empty playground. Stan pulled into the parking lot and scrambled out of the car, rushing to the trunk of the car. He ripped off the adjustable strap of a duffel bag and grabbed his blanket. He ran to Rick's side, throwing open the door. Too tight to be rolled up, Stan was forced to pull off Rick's pants, fumbling as he untied his boots. Upon finally succeeding, Stan looked carefully at Rick's wound. The bullet had gone straight through, grazing his calf, but it was deep nonetheless. He tightened the strap around Rick's thigh as a tourniquet. Meanwhile, Rick mumbled uncomfortably in Spanish. " _¡Ay! Me duele la pierna_."

"It's okay. It's okay," Stan reassured him as he worked quickly, taking off his own shirt and wetting it to clear the blood from the wound. This caused Rick to sit up more, in an effort to get a better look. "Lie back down! Relax!" Stan instructed.

Rick snickered, " _¿Cómo me puedo relajar cuando e-eres muy hermoso?_ "

Stan ignored such comments, still unable to understand. He used the rag to apply pressure and try to stop the bleeding. He tied it tight to his leg, which he propped up on the dashboard to keep above his heart. Rick seethed at the movement, causing something in Stan's chest to ache. He carefully set the blanket over Rick's lap and returned to his seat. Rick's breathing had slowed, at last relaxing. Stan more carefully began driving away. "We'll stop at the pharmacy, then a motel for the night."

"M-maybe we could actually b-both sleep in the bed tonight?" Rick proposed, "M-make sure I don't bleed to death?"

Stan sighed, but smiled lightly, sure that Rick wasn't watching in his discomfort. "Whatever you say."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so longer than my typical chapter. Still hoping you enjoy it! I appreciate every single read.


	4. Sunrise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan takes some time to himself one morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw: wound care, some vague suicidal thoughts

Rick looked at the building: _The Mystery Shack_ , a cheap old house, clearly nothing more than a tourist trap, but it somehow felt like more. He looked at the door, then back at the woods, then down at his portal gun. He could just leave. Maybe now wasn't a good time. Stan might not even be home. Maybe he should just-

No, no. There was no harm in just stopping by to... to just say hi. That was it. That was all he wanted to do. He walked confidently up to the door, raised his fist to knock, and-

Nope, nope. Definitely a bad idea. He turned around, briskly moving in the other directly. He shouldn't have come here. He'd just go home and pretend nothing happened. This was all clearly just a mistake and he could just go-

Rick was dragged out of his internal conflict by the sound of a car pulling up the the shack.  _The Stanmobile._ The titular owner of the car stepped out, looking completely surprised. "That was fast," Stan commented, looking around, confused.

"Oh, heh, well, you know. I-i was just in the area. Thought I drop by," Rick explained as casually as he could muster, shrugging and shoving his fists into his jacket pockets.

"Um, I was actually hopin' you would," Stan shrugged, "Just got back from sendin' out a postcard for you."

"Oh," Rick said calmly, but secretly, he was elated to know that Stan had actually sent out an invitation. That he was wanted.

"Yeah. So," Stan said, nervously reaching a hand to the back of his neck, "You wanna come in?"

Rick's cool façade broke for a moment as he flashed the old man a smile. "I got nothin' else to do," he said and gladly followed Stan inside the shack.

 

The two sat at a cheap table in the cluttered kitchen. "So," Rick began, "Y-you said you'd been sailing 'round the world?"

"Oh, yeah," Stan leaned forward onto his elbows, "Me and my brother always wanted to and-"

"I know," Rick interrupted. Of course he knew. It was Stan's dream from all those years ago and he'd finally accomplished it. And Rick still remembered it.

"I guess you would," Stan replied, a bit startled, "But, anyways, we're just back on shore for a few months for his wedding next week."

"Hmm." Rick reached for his flask, unscrewing it to take a sip. He looked around the room, filled with trinkets and memories of all sorts. It was all so mundane and domestic and... nice? He didn't want to think about how much he liked the prospect of finding someone for which he'd put aside his adventures, if only for a moment, and someone who could take him on adventures of their own.

"You know, if you'd like," Stan continued, "I'd been needin' a date to the thing and... well..."

Rick choked on his whiskey. He coughed terribly, setting the flask on the table.

"Woah! Woah! Didn't mean to kill ya' over it. If you don't want to, just-"

"N-no!" Rick managed to get out between breaths, "N-n-no. I'm fine. Just surprised." He laughed as he regained his composure and sat back in the chair.

Stan smiled, a bit relieved. "So? You up for it? Quiet ceremony, but there's a party afterward."

"You kiddin' me?" Rick asked, "An opportunity for another party with ol' 'Eight-Ball Alcatraz'?"

"Come on! I haven't even used that name in decades!"

"Whatever. I'm in, Lee. I-i'll be the prettiest date there. A-all the other studs'll be so jealous of you," he teased, kicking his feet up on the table and in that moment, he looked almost exactly like he had back when all this was normal for them.

* * *

 

Stan opened his eyes suddenly, completely forgetting whatever dream he'd been clinging to. He couldn't remember any specific details, but he knew it had felt warm and safe with the pulsing of a heartbeat keeping him in a steady rhythm. But then, out of nowhere, everything went dark, the air turned cold, and the beating came to a halt. And that's where he'd woken up.

It was still dark in the motel. Stan couldn't see a thing, but he didn't need to in order to know where he was. His foot brushed along a long leg wrapped in thick bandages as he shifted, his arm was laid over a thin body breathing slowly, and a mess of hair was tucked under his chin. He didn't need any sight to feel where he was and feel completely terrified at the realization. He flinched at first, trying to pull away. Rick shuddered beneath. He was still in pain, but this was the calmest he'd slept since they first hit the road together. He couldn't bear the rip the poor man from his sleep, lord knows he needed it. So, Stan gently slipped away. He propped up his pillow behind Rick's back, pulling the covers up over his shoulders, and sliding out onto the rough carpet.

Stan opened the blinds, expecting to let in just a bit of light, but finding none. It was still night, the sun completely out of view. He wanted to get dressed, but didn't want to turn on the lights. He didn't want to disturb Rick. He wanted to let him sleep. Why, why,  _why?_ Of course it was a simple kind act, but Stan knew he was never one for such gestures. Why was it different now? Frustrated, Stan stumbled around the room until he found his hoodie on the dresser and zipped it up to his chin. He stepped outside, being careful to close the door quietly behind him.

It was freezing outside. The wicked winds stung against his bare legs, guarded only by his boxers. He had no shoes and his toes grew numb on the snow-dusted pavement. But, at last, he could breathe. He lit a cigarette and took a long draw. The smoke burned his throat and filled his lungs with its warmth. He blew out a hazy cloud into the cold hair, holding the cigarette between his fingers. The flickering blue neon light illuminated the parking lot. He saw the Stanmobile nearby. It was comfortable and familiar. It had some semblance of heat. He dug through his pockets to find the keys and walked quickly to the car, driving away without a second thought.

He didn't go far; just a bit up the road towards the highway before turning into a narrow path leading up a steep hill. At the top was a small rest stop. There was a picnic table outside and a light on inside a small stone building, but seemed completely empty and secluded. He parked and walked up to a fence set around where the hill cut off into a sharp cliff. It was a low fence, only a few feet high with two rungs. He sat, his feet hanging over the edge and his head peaking out the middle gap. He flicked his cigarette to the ground, intimidatingly far away. He could have easily slid under the barrier to join the ashes he'd flicked carelessly to the dirt. Nobody would stop him. Only, somebody already had.

Why did he have to have  _feelings?_ All they did was get in the way. They got in the way of business, of life, of just trying to fit in and be  _normal_. After all, that's what he'd been for so long: average.

Another car parked next to Stan's own. He looked back and saw a woman get out of the driver's side and head inside the rest stop. He heard the clicking of her heels on the cracked pavement and the quiet jingling of bracelets on her wrist. He almost reminded him of...

_Ma._ His dream began to seep back into his memory. He had dreamt of her, the one member of the family to never truly give up on him. She was there and she held him and it was just like it used to be, but something had taken it away. What was it?

Stan noticed an orange glow forming along the horizon, contrasting the blue of the sky, melting away the night and causing the stars to disappear in its glow. Rick would surely be waking up soon. He'd bought some antiseptic and proper dressing for his leg. He would need to be checking up on him. After all, taking care of people was the one thing he could do right. He rose to his feet as sunlight graced the treetops. With a final look to the soft, welcoming grass, Stan returned to his vehicle and drove quickly back to the motel.

A wave of relief crashed over Stan to find Rick was still asleep when he arrived. He took the softest cloth he could find from the bathroom and soaked it in the hydro-whatever medical stuff they got. He saw Rick sleeping, still a bit fitfully, but much better than he had been. He was tempted to just let him sleep like that, but it really was important to keep his leg from getting infected. He laid a heavy hand on Rick's shoulder, shaking it gently. The raven-haired man rolled to the side uncomfortably. He let out a slight moan as he shifted, which Stan chose to ignore.

He yawned, sitting up and leaning back on his elbows. "Mornin', Lee," he greeting in a sleep-heavy voice.

"Morning," Stanley replied as he removed the sheets from Rick to get a good look at his leg. Taking the limb in his strong hands, he carefully unwound the bandages. "Hmm," he mused as he examined the wound. It had healed somewhat from last night, if very little, but any progress was good. Rick hissed as Stan pressed the cloth to his flesh. "Sorry," Stan muttered.

"N-no," Rick shook his head, his unruly hair sticking to the sides of his face and to the sides in jagged points, "It's fine."

"So," Stan discussed as he covered the newly cleaned leg with fresh dressing, "Where to next?"

"I-i was plannin' on stayin' in the city for a week or t-two, but after that welcome of sorts, I-i propose we move west."

"Makes sense. Dunno why that guy was so quick to fire. All ya' did was hold a case."

Rick thought for a second. He hated to admit it, but he hadn't really considered that. "Prob'ly just a psychopath or somethin'," he dismissed, "C-come on, let's get goin'. We have money to make!"

"Ready as soon as you are," Stan said, pulling up a pair of jeans and moving to sit next to Rick on the bed.

"I-i've been ready for a while now," Rick mumbled faintly to himself.

"What was that?" Stan asked.

"N-nothin'!" Rick said, quickly leaping to his feet. He stumbled as the weight hit his leg, but he took a deep breath and mustered the strength to ignore the pain.

Stanley did the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. This one's a bit short, but I've it the 10k word point sooooooo I hope it wasn't too long a wait.  
> As always, thank you and I love you all!


	5. The Mutt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The two arrive in Vegas with a new partner in crime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: alcohol, gambling, gunshots, and period-typical homophobic slurs.

"This is great, Dad," Beth insisted, enthused. She carried a bottle of wine as the family approached the shack.

"Yeah, honey, real great," Rick said thoughtlessly. He didn't see why a family dinner was necessary. Whatever  _this_ was was between Rick and his... well... whatever Stan was to him was purely his business.

"Couldn't hurt to get to know the fam', Rick," Jerry said, walking up to Rick's side. God, his voice was annoying. Rick shoved him, knocking the dumbass to the ground. Jerry, off all people,  _certainly_ didn't have to be here.

The kids were the first one in through the door. Into the kitchen, there were a few extra collapsable tables set up to accommodate the surplus of people. A heavily pregnant woman set a freshly baked ham on top of the centermost table. Stan's twin nervously tried to help her carry the heavy tray, but was nudged away but a shorter man, trusting that she was capable on her own; the twin's fiancé, Rick supposed. The smaller set of twins came up to meet Summer and Morty, the boy giving Morty a high five and the girl presenting Summer and Morty with their own customized sweaters. A heavyset man escorted the Smiths inside with a salesman's smile. Beth took the wine to the table, greeting the women preparing the meal and the intellectuals next to her, while Jerry stopped to talk to the man that had greeted them. Rick's attention, however, was focused elsewhere.

Stanley Pines sat at one of the tables in the crowded room, wearing a red button-up, the top few buttons undone, revealing a gold chain necklace. He grinned, watching the children talking excitedly. Then, he looked over to Rick. He appeared almost surprised to see him there, as if taken off guard that he actually showed up with everyone else when invited. Rick smirked and walked over to take a seat next to him.

"Hey," Rick said with a shrug, kicking his feet up on the table, which earned him a glare from his daughter. Slightly ashamed, he pulled his shoes back and onto the ground, sitting upright.

"Hey," Stan echoed gruffly. "Pretty nice family you got. Never mentioned you had such a nice daughter," he complimented.

"Beth? Oh, heh, yeah. G-good kid," Rick agreed.

"Dad, I'm thirty-five," Beth reminded him, glass of wine already in hand, "Not really a kid."

"W-whatever, honey," Rick dismissed.

"You should consider yourself lucky," Stan told Beth, "Musta' missed out on all ah' your old man's genes."

Rick punched him in the shoulder, which only caused Stan to laugh. "Y-you really haven't gotten any less annoying, have you?"

"Shut up!" Stan teased, "You still love me!" he spat out before fully realizing what he'd said. It had just come naturally. He just then realized that he didn't fully remember the last time he'd said it to him besides it being somewhere hot and strange. He froze up as the implications of the phrase set in. Rick seemed similarly stunned, wide-eyed and otherwise expressionless. Beth, Ford, and Fiddleford were all quiet as well. "Um," Stan thought desperately to come up with an excuse, "I... I just... my memory and-"

"No, no!" Rick put up his hands defensively, "I-i-it wasn't-"

"Dinner's ready!" the pregnant woman interrupted, much to their relief, calling in the kids to the table.

 

Everybody was happy. The food was delicious. Things were actually going well.

"So, I mean I'm more or less between jobs at the moment and all, but, well, it's not a  _big deal_ or anything." The one problem Rick noticed was Jerry's incessant ramblings.

"Yo, dude," Soos spoke up from his place next to his wife, "That's too bad. I got a pretty good gig here and all."

"Oh, well, I mean if you're hiring and-"

"No," Stan shut him down, clearly equally annoyed by the man. Rick could have kissed him for that, were they not surrounded by family and the overbearing weight of self-doubt.

"So," Beth cut in, "Dad, how did you two meet?"

"Um," Stan mumbled, "It was nothin' really. Your dad and I just met in a trade of sorts."

Morty spoke up from the children's end of the table, "So it was drugs, then."

"Don't be a smartass, M-morty!" Rick shouted.

Dipper stared at Stan worriedly, "Grunkle Stan? Is that true?"

"Uh," Stan nodded hesitantly, "Yeah, kid, but you gotta understand. Things were rough for me back then."

Mabel nodded quietly in acceptance. Dipper, however, still looked concerned. Stan saw Fiddleford reach over to hold a guilt-ridden Ford's hand.

Rick's family didn't even bat an eye.

"So," Rick began, "W-where's the bathroom here?"

"Up the stairs and to the left," Stan instructed.

"Thanks," Rick muttered as he left the room, following the directions as given. He closed the door behind himself and slumped against the wall, relieved to have a bit of time alone.  _Humans_ were never his strong suit. He put a hand over his face, drawing in a long and tired breath.  _I shouldn't even be here,_ he thought,  _I'll just fuck things up again._ This thought surrounded him, seemingly unbreakable.

Of course, nothing is, not even thoughts. And this one was shattered from Rick's mind as the door swung open behind him and a strong hand grabbed his shoulder.

* * *

 

"Pull over!" Rick shouted, choking on his sandwich, grabbing the wheel, and turning it out of Stan's hands.

"The hell?" Stan questioned, surprised.

"Over there!" Rick pointed out into the distance through the windshield.

"What?" Stan asked as he pulled to a halt alongside the empty road. "It's nothing but desert!"

Without a word, Rick kicked open the car door and ran a few meters away into the pale, dusty Utah sand. Stan got out, staying by the car. He watched Rick, which was a bit difficult in front of the brightly setting sun. "What are you doing?" he called out.

Rick shushed him with a finger to his lips. He slowly leaned down. Stan squinted, his vision a bit hazy. He probably needed glasses, but they were too expensive. Rick seemed to be kneeling to the ground and petting the sand. Sand that moved? That ate the remains of Rick's sandwich? That approached at Rick's side, coming closer until coming into focus.

"A puppy!" Rick exclaimed gleefully. It was clear by then that Rick had found a fully grown mutt with shaggy, beige fur matted to its sides. One eye was barely visible from behind the mess of hair. It stood almost up to Rick's hip and panted contentedly with a somewhat apparent smile.

"No," Stan ordered plainly.

"Aww, c-come on, Lee!" Rick whined. He stooped down to the creature's level, wrapping his arms around its neck and lightly patting its head. "J-just look at 'im! How can y-you say no to this face?" It lapped at Rick's face, causing the man to giggle in a strangely high tone. "Such a good boy!" he encouraged.

"No, Rick!" Stan insisted, stepping closer, "They won't let this thing in motels and after sleeping in the car last night, I'd rather avoid ever doing that again," he said as he rubbed the muscle tension in his neck, "Plus, these things cost money. So, just," he tapped the dog with his foot lightly, "...go on then. Scoot. G'bye."

The dog looked down at Stan's foot, then up to his face, then took a step forward and out of Rick's arms before promptly lying down right on top of Stan's shoes.

"Aww!" Rick cooed, "He likes you! Isn't that right-"

"Don't you dare!" Stan commanded.

"-Bacon? See? 'Cuz he liked the bacon on my sandwich?"

"Great," Stan muttered sarcastically, resting his head on one hand, "Just great. You named it. Now you're gonna get attached to it."

"T-too late!" Rick shouted, petting Bacon's fur down with care.

"No!" Stan insisted again, "We're going, without the dog. Come on, Rick."

"No," Rick folded his arms, still sitting on the ground.

"What?"

"I s-said 'no.' I'm not going unless we can take Bacon too."

"Are you fucking with me?"

"Not this time, hot stuff," Rick shook his head, "Either both of us or neither and, may I remind y-you, I'm the one with the drugs."

 

Another half an hour on the road and Rick still had a ridiculous smile on his face as Bacon laid down on the back seat, panting happily.

"Thanks again, Lee."

"Shut up," Stan sighed, a bit disappointed in himself for giving into Rick's persuasion.

Rick fumbled with some metal device as they crossed the state line into Nevada.

"What's that?" Stan asked.

"N-nothin' much," Rick replied without looking up, "Just a gun."

"Shit!" Stan cursed, glancing at the shiny silver of the metal box and some strange violet tubing that protruded from the sides. "You can just make those from nothin'?"

Rick laughed, amused at Stan's simplistic interpretation. "Nah, not from n-nothing. Just from some car parts I stole while y-you bought food and some of those crystals forced i-into a small vacuum that, when activated, releases a-a-a substantial amount of energy," he said it all so easily, like the serious math involved was nothing.

"I see," Stan lied, "But... um... how did you..?"

"Whatever y-you're about to ask, the answer is science."

Bacon looked up between the two front seats and stared at Rick's work, seemingly interested.

"Aww!" Rick patted him on the head with one hand, the other holding his creation steady. "Do you like my gun? Stan! Look! He'll be the perfect partner in crime for us!"

"I'll admit," Stan rolled his eyes, "He's a cute fella. That still isn't helping find a place to sleep once we're in Vegas, though."

"W-we always got the car."

"Not the car!"

"W-whatever." Rick kissed the top of Bacon's head before gesturing back to the seat, where the dog promptly returned.

"Weird," Stan commented.

"W-what is?"

"The dog seems trained or somethin'," Stan explained, "Not like any stray I've seen."

"H-he's prob'ly just smart is all," Rick shrugged it off, not particularly caring to look into the matter. "Y-you'll like him even more than. Y-your own personal genius."

"Heh," Stan laughed awkwardly, "I already got myself one ah' those."

It didn't really hit Stan what he'd said until after it was too late to take it back or fix it. His face felt hot, he was flushed with embarrassment. He hoped Rick would say something and dismiss it like so much else, but his silence only made it worse. He looked over to the passenger seat nervously. Rick hadn't looked up. He still seemed focused on the gun, but his hands no longer moved in busy effort. They were completely still; tense, but not to the point of shaking.

After far too long, Rick cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair, taming some of the spikes only for a moment before returning to their natural position. He raised the gun and hit the butt of the handle, locking a final piece into place. "Aha!" he exclaimed as the gun made a slight  _whirring_ sound. The purple tubes glowed faintly, as if coming to life. "Th-this baby here'll turn anybody messin' with us into ash!"

Bacon must have sensed Rick's enthusiasm and leapt to be closer, pushing the two around in the front.

"Hey! Hey!" Stan protested, "Down, boy."

And so the dog obeyed, moving back to its spot and yawning. The sun had finally set and more distant stars taken its place in the clear desert sky.

"You too," Stan commanded Rick. He reached out to lightly guide Rick's hand back to his lap, the gun with it. "Just keep that thing under control. Hopefully it won't come to that."

"W-whatever you say,  _mi rey,_ " Rick said with a suggestive wink and a click of his tongue.

Whatever redness had managed to leave Stan's cheeks came back in full force this time. He wiped his brow, acting as if it was nothing more than the Nevada heat.  _Shit,_ he thought,  _why does Spanish have to be such a damn sexy language?_

"Look up there," Stan pointed forward, changing the topic. Surely enough, out in the distance shone the colorful neon lights of the city of Las Vegas.

"Sweet!" Rick cheered, "You got the fake ID's, right?"

"Of course," Stan assured, "Driver's licenses. Passports too, though I don't see why we'd need those."

"Never know when y-you have to flee the planet."

Stan paused, a bit confused. "You mean 'country,' right?"

"Huh? Oh, sure. That."

"Okay, then," Stan said, still unconvinced that Rick was being entirely honest, which was nothing new.

 

They parked outside the casino, filling a small bowl they "bought" with water and leaving it on the car floor for the dog. "Don't go nowhere," Stan told it with a pat to the head.

"Finally like him," Rick taunted, "D-don't ya'?"

"Shut up!" Stan snapped before shutting the door.

Inside, the two found their way up to the circular bar in the center of the room. "Two whiskies. Neat," Stan ordered.

"ID?" the bartender requested. Stan and Rick both presented their respective cards.

The bartender eyed them carefully. "Hal Forrester and... George Garcia?"

"It's pronounced  _Jorge_ ," Rick corrected. 

"Sure thing," the bartender replied. Stan turned, still keeping a cautious eye on him.

Rick slung an arm over Stan's shoulder with a smile. "Okay," he whispered, "here's the plan. Go back and forth w-winnin' poker matches. We can both cheat real well, so just try to avoid suspicion."

"Got it," Stan affirmed.

"Two whiskies," the bartender announced, sliding the glasses onto the counter.

"Thanks," Stan replied as the two took their drinks and headed to a table to begin winning.

Two or three more drinks into the night and the two had stacked up a collective two and a half thousand dollars. Busty women in tight outfits would occasionally stop over to the tables and offer Stan another drink, which he'd usually take for both himself and Rick, who would jealously run his foot up Stan's leg, causing the man to panic as he began to lose his focus. On his other side sat a large, bald man with a round scar behind his ear. He did do anything directly threatening, but Stan got a bad vibe, leading him to scoot closer to Rick.

By the end of the night, their winnings had doubled and they table grew increasingly empty. "C-come on, Lee!" Rick pleaded drunkenly, "O-one more round."

"N-n-no-no-no," Stan dragged Rick away from the tables, "Let's just qu-quit whiiile we're ahead."

"But, Leeee!" he argued, "I-i-i g-got this!" he winked not-so-subtlety and with a glare from the dealer, Stan led his partner to the door all the quicker.

They made it out to the car and were happy to see Bacon still sitting in the back. "Heeey," Stan slurred, waving to the dog through the glass. "Look at 'im, Rick. He's such a good boy, Rick. Oh my God, he's wagging his tail. He's so happy to see me. Can you believe it, Rick? Look at how happy he is, Rick." No response. "Rick?"

Stan turned to see Rick just standing there, staring at him happily. "I-i can't," he mused.

"Wha-what are you talking about?" Stan asked.

Silently, Rick stepped toward him, pressing a hand on his shoulder than set him against the red car door. He was close enough that Stanley could smell the alcohol on his breath, the same as his own. Maybe it was the alcohol or the fact that they had money at last, but Stan let his hand drift to Rick bony hip and settle there.

"But," Stan mumbled to himself, "...but I'm not-"

"Don't lie to me," Rick whispered. There was nobody else around.

Upon eye contact, Rick's confidence seemed to falter. Just as he was about to pull back, Stanley lean forward, grabbing Rick and pulling him in until their mouths met in a kiss. It was unlike anything Stan had experienced before. Of course he'd kissed girls before, plenty, and he'd liked it. But, this was  _different._ It was  _Rick_ and that made it special.

Rick kissed back aggressively sucking and biting at Stan's bottom lip. He tasted like whiskey and tobacco ash, a very comforting combination. He wrapped his arms around Stan, gripping the back of his shirt tightly and pushing him back onto the metal door, pressing harder and grabbing tighter until-

"Hey!" A deep, growling voice cut through the air, "You two fags owe me somethin'." It was the bald man from before. He walked towards them at a startling pace, two slightly shorter, but equally muscular men trailing behind him.

Rick jumped, stepping away. Stan dusted himself, trying to appear as  _hetero_ as possible after an encounter such as that. "W-we don't owe you anything," Rick defended.

"Ha!" the man laughed, "Don't think we ain't smart enough to see a couple ah' cheaters like you. Now," he offered with a menacing look in his eye, "hand over the money and nobody gets hurt."

Rick became unsure of himself. He looked back to Stanley, wondering what to do. Stan stood up tall, puffing out his chest. He was the muscle, after all. "No," he stated simply.

"Well, then," the man shook his head, slightly disappointed, "I was hopin' it wouldn't come to this." He reached inside his jacket to reveal a revolver, cocking it and aiming it at Rick. The other two men followed suit, their eyes on Stan.

"L-look, fellas," Rick put up his hands, "I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable solution here."

"Yeah," the man asserted, "You get the money. That's your solution."

"Okay, okay. I left it in the front seat." An obvious lie, but not one the men would notice. "L-lee, if you wouldn't mind."

Stan looked to the three men to be sure they were okay with him looking in the car. The tallest one nodded. He opened the car door, then the glove department. It was dark, but dimly illuminated by a faint purple glow.

"Hurry it up!" the man demanded.

"Of course," Stan muttered, "If Rick would only- catch!" he shouted, tossing Rick the energy gun and retrieving his own pistol.

They ducked behind the front of the car as the firing began. It was three to two with them only turning around to fire back at precise opportunities. "W-what's the plan?"

"I don't know!"

"Then w-why'd you grab the-"

"Stop asking me questions! You're the smart one!"

"Fine! Fine! Th-then you be the strong one while I think of something!"

Stan nodded and leaned over the front of the car to fire back. Shooting for legs, naturally, he hoped to make a clean getaway without any real harm. A bullet pierced the back glass, eliciting a fearful whimper from Bacon and causing Stan to shoot faster.

"Got it," Rick whispered.

"What's the plan?" Stan asked.

"I-i think I can hot wire this thing to knock all three of them out at once."

"No!" Stan protested, "No killing!"

"Maybe n-not for you, but it's them or us, Lee!"

"Don't care! I can't kill someone."

"Good thing you don't have to," Rick said, quickly rising to his feet and kicking away one of Stan's legs, causing him to fall to the ground. He stood tall, aimed carefully, and pulled the trigger.

A momentary spiral of purple light struck through the air before dissipating completely. Everybody was still. Everything was silent. The three men let their weapons fall. The two on either side took a step back, but the center one didn't dare move. He just breathed in, closed his eyes, and then turned to ash. A small pile of dust collected on top of the pavement. Rick, gun still raised, gestured to the other two. "Y-you should probably get going." And so they did, running off and driving away in two separate cars in two different directions, as police would surely be coming soon.

"Us too," Rick said, putting out a hand to help Stan to his feet.

Silently, the two got into the car, miraculously still in working condition, drove to a cheap a distant motel, and took out a room, leaving Bacon in the car for the night. They both felt rather guilty, but all they needed in that moment was a warm bed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAHHHHHHH So, I hope this monster of a chapter that's a thousand words longer than my typical one makes up for the shorter last chapter.  
> They just had to kiss at some point and now seemed about right for some reason. I don't know. Don't question my logic; I don't even understand it.  
> As always, feel free to leave a comment and/or kudos because they are blessings from the gods and I love all y'all. Thank you! <3


	6. A Warm Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick and Stan come to terms with what happened back at the motel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOOOOOO BOY
> 
> Okay so we got warnings for idealization of death followed by some pretty serious sexual themes.  
> Not sure what to tell you besides that.  
> I'm sorry.

Rick spun around, finding himself face to face with, of all people, Stan’s twin. He rolled his eyes, a bit disappointed by this development. “W-what do you want?”

“I want you to listen.” He spoke sternly, his expression obviously serious.

Rick nodded, just hoping to end the interaction quickly.

“Look,” his face softened a bit, “I wasn’t there for Stan when you were, but I do know it was the lowest point in his life.” He bit at his lip nervously.

Rick just glowered at him. The time he spent with Stanley implied that Stanford had few redeeming qualities, if any.

“After the… incident, Stanley has been much better at recalling his more pleasant memories, whereas any emotional issues now could quickly bring up a storm of old trauma.”

“So, w-what’re you trying to say?”

Ford stared Rick down harshly. “If you’re going to leave, if all this domesticity and family and dare I say _commitment_ scares you too much, then just go now, before he gets too attached.”

“Hey,” Rick said defensively, pushing the hand off his shoulder, “Y-you don’t know shit about me. What I’ve done. W-what I’m like.”

Ford gave him a skeptical look. “I’ve seen the entire multiverse, Sanchez. I know your type.” He began to head back downstairs. “I told everybody else I was just making sure you didn’t get lost.” He turn around quickly for a sharp final statement, “And don’t you dare hurt my brother.”

After a few more minutes of solitude, Rick found his way back downstairs, where everybody was finishing up their meal. Ford was chatting with his fiancé as they held hands. “So, why couldn’t Tate make it?”

“Oh, he had work at the lake.”

Ford just nodded with a smile clearly pretending that nothing had happened upstairs.

And Rick did the same as he took his seat.

“Hey,” Stan greeted him with a nudge and a grin.

Rick couldn’t help but smile back. He’d aged, sure, and changed some, but he was still the same Pines.

“Wanna see the roof?” Stan offered.

Rick gladly agreed and the two snuck out of the room as everybody else cleaned up the table, out to the gift shop and up a ladder hidden in the ceiling.

Outside, the sky was clear and the stars were bright. There was little light pollution, so the swirling haze of the galaxy accented the already stunning view.

They lied down on the cool roof tiles side by side, staring up into oblivion.

“Hmm,” Rick hummed.

“What is it?”

“N-nothin’. Just not used to looking at it from this far away.”

“Space?” Stan asked, a bit confused.

“Yeah,” Rick explained, “Y-you’ve been there too.”

“Oh,” Stan said, a bit solemnly, “Oh yeah.”

He’d forgotten. Forgotten having gone to _space._ It made no sense how and he felt terrible. The memories were, to some degree, coming back to him, but it still didn’t feel like enough. He didn’t feel like enough.

“I-it’s nice up there,” Rick said, sympathetically for once in his life. He reached toward Stan’s hand, allowing their fingers to intertwine. He relaxed, feeling safer this way. He took a deep breath and looked back up into the tiny universe that he called home.

* * *

 

The two slumped against the wall of the motel, next to the door. Each let out a heavy sigh, nearly in unison, as if on cue. Rick ran his hands through his hair nervously, walking toward the bed, as Stan just stood there in silence, eyes wide and unblinking.

Rick sat at the edge of the bed. “You okay?” he asked his partner, but received no response. “Come on, Lee,” Rick begged, “Say somethin’.”

Stan looked down at his hands: shaking. “You…” he mumbled, “you killed him.”

“Lee, come on,” Rick pleaded, “I’m tired. Y-you’re a wreck. L-let’s just go to sleep.”

“You killed him, Rick!” Stan put his hands to his head in shock.

Rick stood and approached the man. “Keep your voice down!” he whispered sharply. “L-look, I had to.” He tried to gently take Stan’s hands in his own, but was nudged away.

“No, no, no,” Stan kept repeating, “No, you didn’t. You didn’t have to. What if he had a family? Huh? What if he had a wife? Oh my God, what if he had _kids_ , Rick?”

“Shut up!” Rick demanded, “Don’t you think I’ve thought about that? Don’t-don’t you think I hate myself for it?” Stanley looked worried. Rick hated it when that happened. He hated himself for scaring him. “B-but he was gonna hurt you, Lee. H-he was gonna kill you.”

Stan sunk to the floor and buried his face in his hands. He mumbled something quietly.

“W-what?” Rick asked him to repeat.

“Shoulda’ let him,” Stan said, only slightly louder, “I don’t care what he was. He was worth more than I ever was… everybody seems to be.”

For a moment Stan just sat there silently, self-loathing. But, quickly, he felt two fists bunch up his shirt and drag him up against the wall, up to his feet. Rick stood there, looking Stan in the eyes. Stan could feel each one of Rick’s breaths hot across his face. Rick looked serious, more so than ever before.

“Never. Say. That. Again,” Rick insisted, still holding Stan by his clothing, “N-never, ever, put yourself down like that again. Y-you, Stanley Pines, mean more to me th-than any other living creature ever has and ever will. You convinced me that there are good people in this fucked up universe. Y-you alone convinced me that my life is somehow worth living. So, y-yeah. I killed a man for you. A-and I’d do it again a-and again and a thousand m-more times if it meant y-you’d be safe. So, never, _ever_ , say that again, Stanley Pines, or for the love of God, I will do everything I can to prove you wrong.”

At these words, time ground to a halt. There was nothing else left in the entire universe. No shootouts. No hunger. No pain. There was just the two of them alone in the motel room.

Stan wrapped his arms around Rick’s shoulders, pulling him in to close the small gap between them. He kissed him forcefully, their noses bumping together and stubble scratching each other’s faces, but it was special. He tangled his fingers into Rick hair, pulling gently.

Stan felt Rick’s hands loosen their grip on his shirt. They carefully slid down, tracing his sides, before settling on his hips. They were shaking faintly. Rick seemed surprised and excited and… scared? He kissed back softly without biting and barely any tongue. Like he was afraid to hurt Stan.

Stan sighed, pulling back for a moment. “Rick,” he assured, “It’s fine. I’m fine. Relax.”

Rick glanced at the ground and back up at Stan’s eyes. God, his brown eyes alone must have been the most beautiful thing he’d seen in the entire galaxy- no, the universe. “H-how…” Rick stuttered nervously, “How far do you wanna take this?”

Stanley leaned in, planting a quick kiss on his forehead. “Just shut up and lead the way.”

A mischievous grin spread across Rick face. He reached up, removing Stan’s hand from his shoulder and taking it in his own. He let his other hand wander downwards. With a sharp squeeze, he elicited a uncharacteristically high squeal from the conman. “Gladly.”

The next thing Stan knew, he was being pushed up against the cheaply papered wall of the motel by Rick’s entire body. Their mouths hit in a kiss tasting of smoke and blood. Stan seethed as Rick bit at his lip, irritating the wound. About to complain, he was cut off by Rick's knee sliding between his legs, causing a deep moan to erupt from his throat. This only led Rick to push further, kissing harder, grabbing tighter, and leaning in more, a hand slinking down to take the place of his knee.

Stan’s head fell back with pleasure before he leaned back him to press an open-mouthed kiss to Rick, playfully flicking his tongue. He pushed Rick back, stumbling until they hit the bed, leaning until they were completely horizontal, one on top of the other.

Rick's long, dexterous fingers slid under the hem of Stan’s grey t-shirt, pulling it up and over his head. He ran his hands over Stan’s soft, hairy chest, dotted with freckles. He was so _warm._

Stan similarly removed Rick’s top, revealing his scarred, bony torso. His chest rose and fell sharply with each desperate breath. He pressed a hand down on Rick’s shoulder, pinning him to the mattress. Holding the back of his head, Stan buried his face in Rick’s neck, sucking marks that would surely be hickies by morning.

Rick once again gripped between Stan’s legs and at last he could take no more. “You're killin’ me with this teasin’,” Stan moaned.

He fumbled with the button until Rick sat up and pushed his hands away. “Let me,” he offered in a breathy whisper. Rick caught Stan off guard and turned over so that he was on top. He looked Stan in the eyes as he slid a hand over the zipper, pulling it down slowly before undoing the button. He pulled down the garments as Stan kicked off his shoes, leaving the man in nothing more than his boxers, which did very little to conceal his excitement.

Stan sat up as Rick slid off the bed, crouching between the parted legs and licking his lips seductively. He slowly slipped two cold fingers under the waistband of the boxers and-

Stan laughed. Rick retracted his hand in confusion. Had he done something wrong? Was Stan mocking him? “W-what’s so funny?” he asked.

“Oh, it-” Stan mumbled out, “it's nothing.” He ran a hand through his hair before covering his face: party reddened from alcohol, but mostly from embarrassment.

“W-wait,” Rick looked up at him, “Are you _nervous?_ ”

Stan shrugged with a heavy sigh, “Maybe? A little?”

Rick laughed raucously. “Holy shit, Lee! That's adorable!”

“Shut up!” Stan shouted back, defensively.

“Y-you didn't let me finish,” he said, moving forward and pawing his way up to meet Stan’s eyelevel, “Adorable, but also incredibly sexy,” he whispered before pressing a kiss to Stan’s cheek.

“Heh.” Stan began to relax. “So, finished now?”

“Not. Even. Close.” Rick fell back to his knees. He reached for the rising grey fabric of Stan’s boxers and gripped just a bit too tightly, earning something between a gasp and a shriek. “But give me a moment.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Rick slipped a hand down beneath the drawers and wrapped his hand around the shaft. Stan shuddered and gasped, much to Rick’s delight. He wasted no time and stroked rapidly, compensating for the alcohol-induced partial limpness. And compensate it did. Rick couldn’t help himself but marvel a bit at the size.

“D-damn, Lee,” he stuttered out in surprise, “With those muscles and all I knew you were big, but this is a different type of big here.”

Stan laughed awkwardly to himself between heavy breaths and the occasional moan. In his intoxicated state, Stan didn’t honestly think it could get much better than it felt right then, but he quickly realized he was wrong as Rick went down.

And that was the end of what he could remember the next morning.

He woke up with a terrible headache and Rick’s arm draped across his chest. The genius was still asleep and wearing his pants. This was somewhat of a slight relief to Stan, but was nothing compared to his massive embarrassment, confusion, and shame as he remembered as much as he could of what had occurred.

He was cold. He only wore his boxers and had neglected to put on a blanket. He wanted to move and cover himself, but any movement could wake Rick and-

“Shit,” he whispered. As embarrassed as he was, he could live with the sex. But this was more than that.

He’d caught _feelings._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol back into the shame cave I go.  
> Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.


	7. The First Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite not fully remembering exactly what happens, Stan has to face the reality of last night's events. Of course, procrastination has only killed some people...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick warning for some suicidal idealization and reference to prostitution.

“Just l-look at all that,” Rick said, gesturing over the vast cliffside to the field of megatrees below. “R-really high up,” he muttered, glancing down at the rows of young saplings, growing straight up, thick and sharply pointed at the top, much like the seeds from which they sprouted.

“Y-yeah, Rick. I know. I fell down there. Remember?” Morty rolled his eyes. “Why are we even here?”

“Can’t an old man r-reminicse?” Rick snapped back harshly before taking another sip from his flask.

“W-whatever,” Morty replied, taking a few hesitant steps back from the edge and glancing at his phone. There wasn’t any reception on this planet, but at least there was still the time. “H-hey, Rick, can we head back soon? I’ve got plans w-with Dipper and-”

“Ugh! Come on, M-morty!” Rick protested, grabbing the boy by the arm, “W-why would you want to go back? W-we’ve got adventures to go on, Morty! N-no time for some stupid dates!”

“Not a date,” Morty insisted.

Rick ignored this and kept ranting, “No time for that! J-just keep going! N-nobody gets hurt that way! Just keep…” his voice trailed off, finding himself breathing heavily. He let go and turned back to the cliffside. “No time.”

“Rick?” Morty asked quietly, carefully placing a hand on Rick’s arm.

Rick quickly pulled away and walked briskly away from the cliff, shooting out another portal without explanation. “Let's go.”

* * *

 

Stan ran a hand through Rick’s hair softly. “Hmm,” he mused to himself. He liked the way he could never quite flatten it out. He loved the way it smelled, even without showering in the past few days. But, most of all, he hated himself. He hated the way he couldn’t force himself to get up, get dressed, and-- “ _Let go,_ ” he commanded himself in a whisper as he wrapped his arms tighter around his, well, whatever the fuck they were at this point.

He doubted they could go back to _friends_ . _Lover, paramour,_ or, God forbid, _boyfriend_ were all completely out of the question. Too much was implied. _Partner?_ That could do. _Business partners,_ of course. Strictly business. Anything on the side was merely… a bonus of sorts.

And that would be all, he promised himself.

On his forearm were three small bandages over various scars he'd collected over the years from a number of different people, all of them unpleasant. He must've gotten hurt somehow, probably at the shootout, and Rick must've patched him up. He nervously ran a finger around the edges of the cheap wound care, figuring it couldn't have been too bad.

It was still cold, but where their bodies overlapped, it was warm and slightly sweaty. Not ideal, but strangely comforting. Stan was just settling into the position, nearly dozing back off, when Rick began shifting and shuddering uncomfortably. He muttered to himself in his sleep. “No…” he whispered, “ _T-termine_ … ¡ _No_ ! ... _no puedo_ … go…”

Stan carefully placed a hand on Rick’s shoulder. “Hey,” he spoke softly, “Are you-?”

“Lee!” Rick shouted as he sprung straight up, panic in his eyes. “Oh,” he said, seeing Stan’s surprised and vaguely fearful expression, “Oh. Y-you’re… okay, then.”

Stan scooted to the side to look Rick in the eye. “Are you alright?” he asked hesitantly.

“What? Me? Of course!” Rick assured, “I-its nothing.” He cleared his throat. “So… w-we were really drunk last night.”

“Really.”

“More so than usual.”

“Way more.”

“A-and unless it was a dream… th-things happened.”

“They did.”

Rick nodded soberly. “I see.”

“But it didn't mean anything!” Stan blurted out.

“It didn't?” Rick asked, his tone hurt, but appearing more regretful upon realizing what he'd implied.

“I dunno!” Stan almost yelled. He felt panicked and conflicted. He buried his face in his hands. “I have no _fucking_ idea what any of this means.”

Rick hesitantly reached out to comfort Stan, but quickly decided against it. He sighed. “ _Ni yo,_ ” he muttered, drawing another drink from his flask to ease his throbbing headache.

“I just don’t know.” Stan stood up and walked to the end of the bed to collect his jeans from the floor.

“ _Solo sé que te quiero,_ ” Rick mused quietly, rubbing his temples.

“What?” Stan asked, looking up at him with a surprised look.

“What?” Rick echoed quickly, looking over, slightly flushed, at a still shirtless Stan.

“You said… something.”

“I did?”

“Yeah.” Stan nodded.

Rick took a few moments to think. “Outloud?”

“Um, yeah,” Stan clarified suspiciously.

“Oh.” Rick nodded lightly and took one last drink to finish off the flask.

“What does it mean?”

Rick sighed and slumped back on the bed. “I-it means we need money. N-now get dressed so we can sell.”

 

The drove in silence for a while. Stan touched at his wounded arm curiously, unable to fully remember what happened. In fact, he could barely remember a single thing about the previous night.

He thought long and hard, trying desperately to recall. There was a kiss… then a touch… then-

“You hungry?” Rick asked, approaching a McDonald’s.

“Yeah. Sure,” Stan said blandly. In reality, he was far too distracted to focus on his own basic needs, but the last thing he wanted was to worry Rick. Worry leads to questions which leads to _talking._ And as much as Stan wanted answers, he wasn't willing to actually discuss anything that happened to get them. Not yet at least.

Neither ate much. They both ordered burgers, but ended up feeding most of them to the dog; at least he was calm, contentedly panting in the backseat.

The car had taken some real damage in the shootout: the back window had been shot, along with a few other spots along the trunk. Luckily, the front, and therefore the engine, was untouched, but still less than ideal.

“W-we should find a new ride,” Rick suggested after a long and painful bout of silence.

“What?” Stan asked, seemingly offended, “No!”

“Come on, Lee! Th-this thing’s banged up. B-besides, it won't cost anything to j-just take something better.”

“This baby’s just fine!” Stan argued, “We don't need anything better.” He crossed his arms impishly.

Rick raised a hand placatingly. “Okay! J-jeez. Fine.” He sighed. “B-but we at least gotta get outta here. Th-those two goons are gonna r-recognize us.”

Stan bit his lip and nodded. “Alright. Where should we go next?”

“We could always head south,” Rick suggested, “Maybe leave the country.”

Stan thought for a moment. He'd never actually left the United States. Certainly couldn't hurt. Maybe if he just gave it a try. Plus, he'd still have Rick. “Okay,” he agreed, somewhat reluctantly.

“O-okay, then,” Rick echoed after a pause.

They rode for a while again in silence, reaching a relatively empty stretch of road near some apartments and bars on the very edge of the city. It was deafening. Stanley’s mind was racing, begging him to say something. To just _talk_ about what happened.

“So,” Rick began, “uh, anything y-you wanna talk a-about?”

 _Yes, dammit_. “Nope,” Stan fired back rapidly, perhaps even harshly.

Rick drew in a breath. “A-are you sure?”

“Yes! Of course I am!” Stan insisted defensively, “Why? I mean, do you wanna talk about something?”

“Well, y-yeah,” Rick admitted quietly, not looking away from the road, “Kinda.”

Stan crossed his arms, still conflicted as to whether or not he was ready to hear it. “Well then, just say it.”

Rick sighed. He pulled the car over to the side of the road. Bacon perked up, but stayed quiet. Rick reached back and rolled down a window to let some fresh air in for the dog before facing Stan, painfully looking him in the eye.

Stan did his best to keep his gaze down, to avoid looking into those icy cold, blue eyes. He failed. “You didn't have to stop just to talk,” he argued softly, weakly.

Rick took a deep breath, letting out a smooth stream of air that still smelled of tobacco and whiskey.

Stan immediately recalled that scent against him the previous night, let out in hot whispers of sweet, unspeakable things that Rick let spoken so easily.

“I-I just think, w-we can't pretend last night didn't happen, so if y-you want out, y-you should go now,” Rick stated bluntly, using everything he had to keep the emotion off his face.

Stan stared back, shocked, as if the words had just been noise to fill the car. “What?” he asked.

“Y-your car,” Rick continued, “y-you'd get to keep it. I-I'd figure it out, but j-just-”

Without even thinking it through, Stan had held a hand to the side of Rick’s face, gently silencing him.

Rick just looked back, surprised. Quiet. “I-I don't-”

“No,” Stan said softly, “I’m staying.” He gradually leaned in closer. He could feel Rick’s breath against his face. He could smell the stench of whiskey, somewhat lighter than usual. As sober as he was willing to get.

His heart raced. The blood rushed to his face and chest and otherwise just being this close. And he moved even closer, slowly closing the gap, until-

Bacon started barking and howling in a panic in the back seat. Stan quickly pulled back. Rick fell back into his seat with a thud, visibly annoyed.

“What’s goin’ on, buddy?” Stan asked, turning back to the dog, who was clawing at the door, trying desperately to squeeze through the small gap in the window.

Across the street, a scantily clad woman was sauntering toward an apartment complex, sparkling silver stilettos in hand and red lipstick smeared across her lips and cheek. She stalled and looked over toward the car doubtfully, only to clasp a hand over her mouth and run blindly across the, fortunately, empty road to the car. “Ziggy!” she called out.

The dog only got even more hyper. It seemed as though he would break down the car door had he not been so skinny.

The woman reached the car and reached out toward the dog before retracting her hand and acknowledging the men in the front seat. She knocked on the window. Stan rolled it down. “Mista’s, I'm sorry, but I think you got my dog,” she pleaded in a shrill voice, tears forming in her eyes.

“The hell do you mean?” Stan asked, “We found this mutt miles from here. In the desert. Nearly a state over.”

The woman nodded, clearly distraught. The tears only worsened the state of her heavy eye makeup. “I was out with a client,” she explained, “a bit later than usual nearly a month ago and some fellas came inta’ my apartment and, well, they musta’ scared him off.” She clasped her hands together, as if praying. “Please. I swear. I know my own dog.”

“L-like hell-!” Rick began, nearly lunging for his gun, before Stan held a hand to his chest, silencing him.

Stan sighed. “You sure he's yours?”

“Absolutely,” she promised and, looking into her brown eyes, he knew she meant it.

With a heavy heart, Stan got out of the car and opened the back door to let Bacon, or Ziggy, out.

It had never looked so enthused, jumping up on the woman, who fell to her knees, patting and kissing him frantically, murmuring praises and repeating “good boy” over and over for coming home. She looked up at Stan gratefully. “Thank you so, so much.” She laughed, nearly a sob. “He's all I got.”

“Yeah,” Stan said with a shrug, “Don't mention it.”

As she returned to her pet, Stan climbed back on the car and rolled up all the windows.

“W-what the hell?” Rick asked angrily, “Y-you j-just give him away to a fucking stranger? W-we found him!”

Stan shook his head lightly. “No, Rick.” He looked up at the other man. “That's family. I ain't gonna come between that.” He started the car.

Rick crossed his arms and sat back, still facing Stan, though staring at the back seat. “W-whatever,” he mumbled.

“Hey,” Stan said, returning a hand to Rick’s face, “You still got me.” He offered a weak smile.

Rick looked back, smirking and nodding slightly. “Yeah. I guess I do.”

Without even thinking, Stan leaned in quickly, pressing their lips together briefly. He pulled back hastily, completely embarrassed from the simple vulnerability.

Rick opened his eyes wide, although not entirely surprised. His mouth hung just barely open.

“I-I'm sorry, I-” Stan stuttered out before being cut off as Rick returned the gesture, even longer and deeper, a hand twisting into Stan’s hair. When he finally pulled back, Stan’s face was completely red, yet he managed a nervous smile.

Rick sat back in his seat nonchalantly, flashing Stan a smile.

Stan cleared his throat, attempting to focus with little success. “S-so, south?”

Rick nodded. “A-anywhere with you.”

**Author's Note:**

> First Stanchez fic of mine! Hoping it wasn't too awful. I mean, if you're reading this, you got to the end and it must've been decent enough. Please feel free to leave kudos and/or a comment! I thrive on the validation of others!


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